


With Hands That Tremble

by ThisCatastrophe



Category: Naruto
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Inexperienced lovers, M/M, Multiple Penetration, Past Abuse, Spooning, Trans Male Character, Trust Issues, implied to be partially sexual and partially emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14682426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisCatastrophe/pseuds/ThisCatastrophe
Summary: Akemi and Itachi enjoy a calm summer night together on the roof. Things get serious, and confessions are made.Gentle, sappy first time sex between (cis) Itachi and a (trans) male Akatsuki OC.





	With Hands That Tremble

**Author's Note:**

> Hey again. This is another commission for [curiouscarecrow](http://curiouscarecrow.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr. Akemi is a good time to write.
> 
> This is actually my first time writing erotica with a trans character; if anything about Akemi's portrayal makes a reader uncomfortable, please message me and let me know. I don't want to strike nerves, and certainly not about someone's identity. 
> 
> Contains some mentions (not particularly explicit) about past abuse, partially of a sexual and partially of an emotional nature. Also contains mentions of past body dysmorphia.

Akemi reaches out to catch the empty magewappa box that slides slowly down the steep thatch roof; its sudden ending jerk lets a pair of disposable chopsticks loose, which tumble quickly off the roof’s edge and down into the ornamental shrubs below.

The air outside the minshuku’s guest building—a squarish, sterile dwelling with all the trappings of life but none of the wear—is fresher than the musty air indoors, and the two had decided nearly an hour ago to take their dinner outdoors. They climbed out their rented room’s window and onto the roof, secluded and scenic, rather than wander through a family gathering on the bottom level to sit where they could be scrutinized, studied, memorized on the bottom patio. 

From the roof, the view of the mountains is stunning (though Akemi blanches when he remembers that they’ll need to pass through them in the morning) and the gentle breeze lifts their sun-heated hair off their necks and shoulders. It’s the perfect place to have dinner and, as it turns out, it’s also the perfect place for exhausted thighs to press too close together at the sides and for sleepy mouths to nibble lips, ears and throats when the food’s all gone.

“Damn,” Akemi mutters, glancing away from Itachi for a moment to follow the vanishing chopsticks, one cloth-wrapped hand loosening its hold on Itachi’s sleeve. “I should…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Itachi reaches out to touch Akemi’s face, turning it back towards his own. “We can clean it up later, if it bothers you so much.” He leans in to steal another kiss, smelling of honey-glazed pork belly and tasting very much like chilled somen noodles with lingering notes of tumeric and mustard and pan-fried lotus root. The kiss breaks with a tiny puff of too-warm air, and Akemi almost loses the cedar bento box for a second time.

For a long second there’s a pause, a space where the breeze doesn’t blow and the night birds don’t sing. Inside the guesthouse, a separate set of travellers shuffles quietly with their sheets and their baggage, innocent of the pair seated on the dramatic slope of the roof above them. Itachi’s hand finds Akemi’s thigh, presses slender fingers into tight, lean muscle, and withdraws just as quickly when Itachi turns towards the open window to climb back inside.

Akemi is left alone for a moment, heart frozen despite the radiating heat from the thatch roof. He remembers thousands of tiny seconds under thumbs. A ghost of a foreign word whistles through his ears as if floating miles on the southbound winds. Surely Itachi is better.

Surely?

He takes a deep breath and lets himself catalogue everything in the air: a distant aroma of drying tea leaves, the leftover smells of cooking oil and pork marinade, his clothes and Itachi’s, long since merged into the same scent. There are five bodies, warm and soft, on the inn’s bottom level, one leaner, harsher thing on the top level,and no other living creatures to speak of save the birds roosting cozily in the eaves.

He’s a stronger man now. He knows how to cut ties if ties must be cut. Akemi exhales and follows Itachi back into their mothball-stale room.

“You should know,” he says—Itachi stops where he’s at just inside the window, one shoe halfway loosened, the other already discarded—“You should know about my husband.”

Their eyes lock for a second before Akemi recognizes the look in Itachi’s eyes: confusion. “Oh, my… my ex-husband. Not a current husband.” Itachi silently removes his half-loosened shoe, shoulders relaxing.

Akemi moves forward to steer his partner to the futon spread out in the center of the tiny room, gently pressing him to sit on the soft arrow-patterned sheets. Wordlessly, Itachi complies, splaying his bare feet wide on the floorboards, hands vanishing into the plush comforter. He looks so inviting that Akemi nearly abandons his speech—maybe he would have as a younger man.

But adults own up. Adults show off their scars. They put the makeup and the coyness behind them and show off the blemishes. 

All he can hope is that Itachi finds the blemishes as beautiful as the rest of his skin.

He weaves it like a tale, like a short novel stolen from a housewife’s bookshelf: “My husband and I were arranged to marry when I was still young,” Akemi begins, “before anyone else knew who I was. And he didn’t take my thoughts as truth.”

The cloak comes off and falls on top of Itachi’s, long abandoned in a pile by the wall; the slim black shirt underneath looks too revealing now for the first time in months. “You’ve noticed, I suppose.” He smooths his hands over the space where breasts used to be, now only occupied by limber muscle and long, curving scars. “I wasn’t always called a man.”

Itachi is silent, face passive and soft in that unreadable way that it tends to fall. Akemi can’t place what he might think, but he continues: adults show the scars, adults show the scars. “He—my husband—wouldn’t ever call me a man. He considered me a woman,” he presses, swallowing the pause that wants to bubble up in his speech. “Especially in bed.”

Finally, Itachi turns his eyes away. His brows furrow only slightly as he watches his hand, his forearm, the fine muscles moving slowly as his fingers shift in the bedsheets. Finally, he tips his head to the side, face softening as if considering a delicate puzzle.

“I can’t do anything to tell you I’m not like him,” he says. “There’s no words for that. But I can give you this.” And he spreads his arms wide.

Akemi nearly falls into him with a heavy sigh, winding his arms around Itachi’s waist. “I know you’re not like him,” he murmurs, muffled into thick black hair. “But the heart and the brain don’t know the same things.”

There’s a shift in fabric and weight; Itachi has folded his legs underneath himself, now sitting in a loose kneel, shins beside his thighs. “I’d like to teach the heart some new information, then.” He slips out of the embrace, a hand trailing along Akemi’s back, and leans back.

“Show me everything.” Itachi pauses once again, letting the sound of a hissed breath in. “Please.”

Akemi looks back down at his body, thin and small, and lets himself feel comfortable with the fragile wrists and slender calves. He steels himself with his own eyes on his belly as the black shirt follows his hands up to his chest, revealing the mesh body armor beneath. 

Fabric whispers too loud in the tiny room as his discarded shirt falls to the floor. He traces the scars that follow the bones of his ribs, plays fingers against the abdominal muscles that keep developing the longer they travel. Something old and dead, hideous, comments on the wide, bony pelvis and the bones that rise above his waistband, but something practiced listens to the comments and rephrases them. Artful. Strong. Correct.

Itachi’s eyes look like they’ll sear his skin if he stops moving, so he continues. He shifts backwards out of his kneel and bunches the mesh on his torso, working its clinging threads off his skin and willing the little red wear-divots to rise back up. Its tight neck ruffles his hair in passing, and a thick clump of red hair falls diagonally across the bridge of his nose. The hair flutters when he blows at it, but only flops uselessly back on his nose.

He elects to leave it; it blocks the intense look in Itachi’s eyes, which he can’t concern himself with. If he spends too long reading the other’s face, he’ll lose his nerve. Instead, he shifts his hips, rises on his knees to unbutton the wrapped-around side closure of his trousers. The buttons slide open and the waistband drops open under his hands, slipping between fingers that shakily press downwards.

Thighs bare, he rolls to the side of a hip to remove the pants fully, struggling with the stirrups and the hidden support padding that circles tight around his shins, culminating in a kicking motion he was sure was anything but sexy. He shoves the pants off the futon to join the shirt and the mesh before letting his eyes wander back to his underwear, soft, smooth cotton in a rich wave pattern.

Before he can think of doubting himself he hooks his thumbs in the space between his hipbones, sliding the last dark fabric down the last expanses of pale skin. He’s long past the young thoughts, the complaint track on repeat that claims there should be a cock that cuddles itself to his thigh rather than the plush pink vagina, so prominent in his worst memories; he’s learned to love the composition of his body, its thin limbs and translucent skin. But Itachi isn’t him, doesn’t have the same history. Akemi passes a hand over the fluffy patch of red curls and squeezes at the opposite thigh, covering himself just enough to calm his racing heart.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, focusing hard on his grip. “It’s not like you didn’t know… you know.” His free hand flaps uselessly, anxiously, as he speaks. “That I’m skinny and really pale and… this whole situation.”

The bedsheets rustle as Itachi shifts closer, shuffling his knees to meet with Akemi’s. “It is what I wanted.” His eyes, still serious and sharp, bore into Akemi’s belly as one hand slides to a bare knee.

Itachi has never been good at emoting, Akemi finds. The dark look on his face at a roadside dango shop, months previous, turned out to be concentration rather than disgust; the narrowing of eyes betrays his failing sight rather than disbelief. This look, he suddenly realizes, is no different.

It’s not scrutiny, disappointment, hate. It’s desire. 

He tips a knee to the side to part his thighs, bracing his platform and curled-up toes against the sheets. His hand, still crossed over his lap, lifts gently until it brushes against the scars on his chest; Itachi’s boiling stare trails down his hips until it rests on his exposed slit.

“Exactly what I wanted.” And in an instant, Itachi’s lips are on Akemi’s cheeks and throat, searing and clumsy, hands trembling across every expanse of chest and belly and bicep. Fingers grip and tug as if expecting body fat that isn’t there, catching up little sections of hair and pulling too hard, inexperienced but eager. Teeth bear down on bits of skin that feel good to hurt and bits that don’t and places where there isn’t enough skin to clamp onto; Akemi feels as if he’s being eaten alive.

Itachi’s chest, pressed into his, shifts awkwardly and the man falls into his lap, nearly crushing his folded legs. There’s a grumble of irritation muffled against sensitive skin and the hands retreat; weight bears down on him almost too quickly for Akemi to counterbalance.

“Itachi? What’s—”

“—trying to get undressed.” Itachi’s cheek presses into his collar, and Akemi glances down to watch the way his face squishes up, ruining the serious expression.

Akemi can’t help it; he breaks down laughing, falling backwards under Itachi’s weight and trapping the fumbling hands against his thighs. Great, gasping peals of laughter drown out Itachi’s protests, and his hands grab for the loose black hair that sprawls across his chest.

“You’re—” he chokes, “—you’re not suave at all, Itachi.” His feet kick at the rumpled sheets, slapping against Itachi’s calves from time to time. “You’re really not experienced, are you?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Itachi gutters into his neck; faintly, Akemi’s aware of a length of red-hot skin pressing into his leg, and from the corner of his eye he sees a flutter of grey-and-white fabric: his pants, pitched unceremoniously at a wall. “I’m an international criminal. I’m dangerous.”

“You’re nothing of the sort.” Akemi still can’t stop giggling, even when his thigh is pulled over Itachi’s nude hip. “Did you even wear underwear today? Are you out? We could’ve stopped for laundry…”

“Mn,” is the only reply that comes. His partner, finally disentangled, finds a place on his side, snug to Akemi’s waist, a half-hard cock brushing against the underside of his lifted leg. Akemi drops his foot to the sheets behind Itachi’s back and bends the other knee outward, spreading his hips wide with a newfound boldness. 

One of Itachi’s arms curls behind his neck, a quivering hand pressing into his opposite shoulder; the other, hooked by the elbow under Akemi’s knee, reaches to his mouth where he wets two fingers on his tongue. His eyes travel up and down Akemi’s torso as his lips work over the digits. Despite himself, despite the dying giggles, Akemi shivers.

The wet fingers trail ghost-light across Akemi’s vulva (he shudders more than he’d like to acknowledge when they flick over his clit) and prod gently at his ass. “Of course,” Akemi sighs, head flopping back. “Of course you’d go there first.” A single digit presses the hole open, just barely, and he groans, shifting his back to open his hips further.

“It’s not a problem, is it?” Itachi murmurs. “I just… thought you’d prefer this.” His index finger runs gentle half-circles around the rim of Akemi’s hole while the middle finger presses slowly deeper. “Considering… considering the circumstances.”

A deep, satisfied noise bubbles in Akemi’s chest—it’s been some time since any hand but his own worked him over like this, and it’s never been quite as comfortable as it is now. “I think I’d prefer anything if it’s with you. As long as you watch your nails, okay?”

“I always watch my nails.”

Akemi flinches. “Not just now you didn’t.” He has to clench his belly up and reach for Itachi’s forearm when his partner tries to pull away. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Keep going?”

They’re lost in a sticky, sweaty jumble of probing fingers for quite some time. Itachi, to his credit, wants to be sure Akemi’s completely stretched before they move on, but Akemi’s not certain he realizes what a sexual limbo it puts him into. Thankfully there’s always a wandering mouth to draw his attention away from the maddening curls and jabs: a tongue explores the inside of his mouth, curls around his own, lips suck at his corners and latch onto nipples, teeth reexamine the skin and find only those places that elicit a reaction. It’s been minutes, seconds, what feels like hours, and he pants heavily under now-quick, deep thrusts of Itachi’s fingers and the sharp bites at his bare chest.

In return, Akemi’s free hand explores Itachi’s body, pushing the forgotten shirt and the loose mesh undergarment up to his throat. He grabs at the deep vee low on his partner’s belly, loses his fingers in a thicket of black hair in an effort to grab at the base of his cock. 

“Hey, Itachi, it’s… I’m nice and loose now, huh?” Akemi clears his throat and he tips his chin down to watch Itachi’s hand as it pulses, disappearing under his thigh. “You know, after a certain point I don’t get as much out of this as you might, so we can just…”

“Oh, right.” Itachi swallows and slowly pulls his fingers out, pressing against Akemi’s walls as he goes. “I… forgot, I suppose.” He gives a swift, firm tug at Akemi’s thigh, pulling him to his side before he shifts to curl his belly against the exposed back.

Akemi stifles a laugh, glancing over his shoulder at his partner before writhing to twist his upper body until it’s flat on the bedsheets. “I don’t mind. You’re listening. That’s… all I wanted, really.”

Itachi gives him a brow-furrowed look; for a long second it’s a mystery until Akemi reads its real meaning: shyness. Affection. Itachi is rewarded with a gentle, pale palm that cups his cheek and a slender thumb that traces a tear trough. 

“Next time,” he murmurs as his face reorganizes back into a serious, suave mask, “I’ll do more. Maybe something more romantic—something… dirtier? I’m not sure.” The serious face doesn’t offset his shaking hands.

Akemi hooks his thigh all the way over Itachi’s waist, reaches back to stroke his cock, long and slow, spreading a healthy bead of precum across the shaft. “I don’t need anything more romantic or dirtier,” he replies. “Come on.”

Painfully slow, the head of Itachi’s cock opens Akemi up again. The feeling is different—better, Akemi thinks—than the sticky sensation of saliva against his walls. He leans back, sighing, into the slippery sensation, almost too fast for his own good.

Behind him, Itachi shudders and presses his face into his shoulder. Akemi wraps his arm around his reddening neck and passes a hand through his own hair, trying to pull it away from his forehead as sweat springs up from his pores. “Good?” he asks, not even certain of the subject.

“Good,” Itachi replies. There’s a long, silent moment, and Itachi pushes forward once more until his cock is fully seated inside Akemi; he’s slim all over, just enough to fill him, comfortingly warm. “Good. Perfect.”

He knows, despite his inexperience, not to press Akemi into the sheets and drive into him; the precum and saliva isn’t enough, the mood doesn’t ask for anything rough and needy. For a long moment they’re stuck belly-to-back, lost in the feeling of closeness, of interlocking, heatmaps matching and merging until extremities and cheeks turn red and ruddy. Itachi’s spine straightens until Akemi’s head rests in the crook of his chin, and he slips his almost-trapped arm under Akemi’s waist to pull him closer.

With a low groan, Akemi rolls his hips, brushing his walls tight around Itachi on every side, arching and pressing back until tight testicles sit flush with his entrance. He glances up for approval, sees only a reddened throat, and presses a quick kiss to it.

“You alright?” he asks. “Too much?”

Itachi shudders in reply. His free hand wanders up and down Akemi’s chest as if lost. “Not enough,” he finally replies.

“Not enough, huh…” Akemi curls his back, arches again. “Then let’s make it enough.”

Itachi moves tentatively against him, struggling for a rhythm that matches Akemi’s gyrations, opposite enough to count but not so dramatic to warrant a pause. They stop a few times when their motions make Itachi’s cock slide loose—Akemi laughing at him each time, peppering his chin with kisses until the sensation of being filled makes him groan anew—and more than once rest together, trembling and clinging tight, still lest Itachi lose his composure.

They learn, map each other’s bodies with hands and mouths. They leave red marks and tiny scratches, some welcome, others apologized for. Voices test out whimpers and whines that haven’t risen up for months, haven’t been heard by other ears. In the steady slide of bodies and hands, moonlight crawls towards them through the open window.

Akemi’s skin is illuminated stark-white in the glow when Itachi finally works up the nerve to slip two fingers inside of him. He presses down against his cock through a slick wall, curls the fingers towards his palm to press into a plush button of tissue in a way that makes Akemi see stars. He’s been dizzy-floating on a plateau forever, watching Itachi rise and fall on the brink of coming a dozen times, and the sensation is enough to shove him to that precipice beside his partner.

He whines gently when Itachi’s weight presses down on him, almost pushing him on his belly, and the roll of his hips grows desperate. Akemi feels his walls tighten around the cock and the fingers when Itachi’s palm presses down on his clit. It’s a struggle to keep his quivering leg, still thrown backwards over Itachi’s waist, from closing tight around the burning, throbbing mass of sensations.

“Akemi,” Itachi whimpers. There’s an edge to his voice, a desperation, that Akemi hasn’t heard before, and it sends blood rushing in circles through hiss skull. “Where…”

“My thighs?” he offers. “Please, keep… keep going, though.” Akemi clamps a hand on Itachi’s wrist, nearly cutting off blood flow it as he rubs his clit desperately against the warm skin.

Itachi tries to respond, but whatever he has to say breaks off into a hiss; he pulls his cock out hastily and ruts against Akemi’s thigh, brushing the engorged head against the place where his fingers disappear into his partner. There’s a particularly sharp noise, a keen that quickly dives into a gutteral moan, and a hot, wet sensation passes across Akemi’s inner thigh.

His hand goes limp, only twitching uselessly through its owner’s orgasm; Akemi arches again and bears his hips down against it, determined to follow his partner. Vaguely he’s aware of a spiralling whisper, “Good, perfect, so good, Itachi,” that precedes his climax—

—and everything goes white.

He comes to with a burning face pressed into his neck. It could have been hours, maybe, but Itachi’s panting and the sweat that’s still fresh on their skin says mere moments. Akemi reaches for warmth and rolls over to press in closer.

\--

The deep silence of pre-dawn, with still first-floor sleepers and even nightbirds quiet, forces a sort of reverence out of the pair. Clean skin, scrubbed quickle in a shared bathroom, presses in a slow, comforting slide as Akemi rests his chin on Itachi’s chest.

“So it wasn’t bad,” he teases. “But I think it could use practice.” Itachi rewards him with a gentle jab at his forehead.

“We’ll practice some other time.”

Moonlight, dazzling and silver, casts soft light on the sheets and exposed limbs that peek out to steal cool from the floorboards. Outside, only breezes move, silently picking up little dying leaves and shed petals of flowers, casting them over sleeping guesthouses and abandoned mountains.


End file.
